


harry welsh is tired of being the only straight person he knows

by starblessed



Series: five times, one time prompts [8]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, And He Knows It, Canon Era, F/M, I mean LOOSELY, M/M, Walking In On Someone, harry welsh is the only straight person on this show, if homophobia wasnt a thing in the 40s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2019-01-22 16:26:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12485888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starblessed/pseuds/starblessed
Summary: Subtlety is an art worth learning, and no one Harry knows has a clue what the word evenmeans. He had to figure out everyone was dating each other somehow.(or, five times Harry saw more than he wanted to see, and one time he got his revenge.)





	harry welsh is tired of being the only straight person he knows

**Author's Note:**

  * For [InsightfulInsomniac](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsightfulInsomniac/gifts).



> Written for the Tumblr prompt: "A “5 Times Harry Welsh found out that his friends are dating and the one time they found out he was engaged” I just love Harry and that trope of him being surprised all of his friends are dating each other and Harty fluff is my fave!" thanks for letting me indulge my Harry love, Chloe! ;)
> 
> Of course, the characters in this fic are based off of their fictional portrayals from the miniseries Band of Brothers, and I mean no disrespect to the real-life veterans!
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [renelemaires](http://renelemaires.tumblr.com/)!

**v. luztoye**

Harry doesn't know where the hell Luz is running off to every five minutes, but he knows one thing: he's never where he needs him to be.

The point of having a radioman in the first place is that he's always there when you need him. Preferably, he's carrying a machine twice his size on his back, and is ready to yell at your COs for you whenever you see fit to tell him so. Luz is doing none of these things at the moment. Harry doesn't know why, he doesn't care why, but he's tired of it.

Sure, they're boarding at a quiet Dutch farmstead right now, and there are no signs of an attack on the horizon. Luz doesn't necessarily _need_ to be glued to his radio now, but that's besides the point. Harry needs to know his guy is there, and right now, his guy is _not_ there. His guy isn't _anywhere._

Where the hell is Luz?

He searches the entire perimeter of the house before coming the the foregone conclusion — Luz is nowhere in sight. He’s not hiding in the barn. He’s not poking at the cows again, or antagonizing the chickens. He’s not even off causing trouble somewhere, which is something Harry can usually count on Luz to do.

He’s nowhere in sight. Harry’s annoyance is starting to evolve into something far more pissed off, and it’s all he can do to hold his tongue as he storms up to the farmhouse itself.

He and a few other officers are boarded in here, but Luz is kept close by in case they need to make radio contact. If Luz isn’t in here, he’s got no clue where he’d be.

He makes it several meters down the hallway before he hears it — an odd noise coming from the hall closet. It sounds like a cross between a laugh and a shout, something that he shouldn’t be hearing in an otherwise empty farmhouse by any means. As far as Harry knows, no one else is supposed to be here. Who would be hiding in the closet, of all places?

He’s got a clue. He’s learned to guess the many vagaries of George Luz, and at the moment he’s annoyed by them all.

He pauses outside the closet door just long enough to hear a familiar laugh. That’s all the incentive he needs to throw to door open.

The shout on the tip of Harry’s tongue dies. His jaw drops.

Luz is in the closet, alright, but he’s not slacking off. On the contrary, he’s very busy — and he’s not alone, either.

The real impressive thing is that Luz isn’t even touching the ground. He’s got his legs looped around Joe Toye’s muscular waist, back against the wall, and is being held up with no trouble at all. He’s certainly too distracted to worry about hitting the ground, if the way his mouth works furiously at Toye’s own is any indication.

Joe Toye, the toughest guy in Easy Company, has his hand up Luz’s shirt. The other supports his ass, holding him up, and getting a palmful of much more besides. Toye is so lost in hat he’s doing that he doesn’t even realize the door has been flung open behind him. As a matter of fact, neither of them do. They’re totally oblivious.

Harry does the first thing he can think of — he screams.

 _“Jesus,_ Luz!”

The couple in the closet jump like a gun has gone off near their ears. Toye reels around, looking like he’s seen a ghost— only the problem is, Luz is still hooked onto him, so when he turns the smaller man goes with him. Luz winds up hanging in the air, neck craned awkwardly to gaze at Harry, while Toye’s grip on his ass if the saving grace keeping him from hitting the ground.

“Uhh, heya Lieutenant!” Luz, the absolute bastard, chimes. “You looking for me?”

Harry doesn’t know whether he should be covering his eyes or hollering at them, so he settles for both. “Yeah, I am! _Great_ of you to pick up on that, Luz!”

“Sorry, sorry, be out in a minute — I’m a little tied up here, you get it, can I just have one minute to finish —“

“One minute?” Past his mortification, Toye sounds affronted.

“Just — sure, fine, whatever. Finish your business.” Harry waves them off blindly, fumbling to shut the door. He catches the wink Luz throws at him before he slams it in both their faces.

No sooner has he gotten the door shut than… whatever’s going on in there resumes. He can hear the sound of Luz’s laughter, mixed with Toye’s muffled cursing — but it isn’t long before they’re both giggling like school kids, unable to compose themselves.

The only mercy was that they were both fully clothed. It could, Harry supposes, have been much worse.

* * *

  **iv. webgott**

As long as they're in Austria, he figures he may as well work on his suntan.

Harry has never tanned well. It's those beautiful Irish genes, the same one that give him a heavy alcohol tolerance and more freckles than a leopard's ass. The family history he's so proud of also ensures that he roasts to a crisp if he stays out too long on a hot, sunny day.

The problem is, Harry likes the sun a lot. He likes looking handsome even more. What he loves more than anything else — save Kitty — is looking _good_ for Kitty.

(Anyone who’s _seen_ Kitty knows what he means. He's got a lot to measure up to. He’ll never be able to compare, but he's got to look like someone Kitty can be seen standing next to.)

Now they're in Austria, with jack-all to do and way too much time on their hands, Harry is riding his points back home as soon as he can, and it's the sunniest day he's seen all year. He's going to work on his tan.

The best thing about Austria, other than the lack of people trying to kill them, is the water. They’re not by the beach, but the lakes are pretty damn close. Harry has become fond of relaxing on the pier for the past few days. A few hours of tranquility in the midst of an unfamiliar land is all he can ask for. It’s what he deserves, really, after the hell he fought through to get here.

He arrives at the pier, sunglasses on, towel slung over his arm. He took the liberty of coating himself in sunscreen already, and is lugging a beach chair under one arm. All that’s left to do is set up, get cozy, and let the sun do it’s beautiful wor—

Of course it can’t be that easy.

He recognizes Webster first, mostly because he carries himself like a giraffe. A very pretty giraffe, who thinks he’s got more social skills than he really does. The Miss America of giraffes. Webster’s giraffeish form is crouched beneath the pier, and as Harry approaches he can make out his head full of dark curls bobbing up and down. He’s shirtless and sweaty, making his toned arms and back gleam in the sun. It looks like he’s doing push ups.

“Dammit, Webster,” Harry mutters. Webster isn’t poor company, but he gets annoying after prolonged exposure. Harry estimates he’ll only be able to handle ten minutes of Webster’s babbling about the history of Austrian sunbathing before every cell in his body is screaming to toss him in the water and let him drown.

Nope, Webster has to go. Harry opens his mouth, and is about to yell — Webster will scatter on principle, if not out of fear — when he realizes something that really should have been obvious.

Webster isn’t alone, and he is not doing push ups on the sand.

He’s doing push ups _on top_ of someone.

On top of Liebgott, whose head of unruly, thick hair is sprawled out in the sand like strands of black spiderweb. Liebgott has his hands up by the sides of his face, and he’s being pinned by Webster, who’s moving up and down to —

Kiss him.

Oh. They’re kissing.

As a matter of fact, they’re full-on making out.

_Under Harry’s favorite sunbathing spot._

He switches gears at the last moment. “Liebgott!” he hollers instead, and the effect it has is spectacular. Years of military training have Liebgott springing up like dynamite has been stuck under his ass. His head slams right into Webster’s, and they both go sprawling in an agonized chorus of groans.

Harry purses his lips to keep himself from grinning. It’s inappropriate to laugh, he reminds himself (no matter how much he enjoys their pain). He’s a superior officer who’s just caught his subordinates in a compromising position.

Funny — of all the people, he never would have guessed _Webster and Liebgott_ would be together. Then again, it isn’t really surprising. He’s seen them go head to head before. Their lack of subtlety isn’t as shocking as the fact that they’re involved at all. He’s so used to them being at each other’s throats that seeing it in a more literal sense (Liebgott’s got dark bruises along his collar bones, and there’s a bite mark on Webster's neck) is a little surreal. The fact that they can get along with each other long enough to slide into home base is astonishing — then again, maybe this is just their way of shutting each other up.

“S- sir!” Webster sputters, managing to spring to his feet — only to whack his head on the bottom of the pier. Down he goes again, and this time Harry does cackle.

Liebgott’s recovered enough to stop rolling around. He grips his face, ignoring Webster’s pain entirely in favor of glowering at Harry. If looks could kill, Harry would be six feet under and buried. Cremated, too, if Liebgott was the one holding the match.

“This isn’t what it looks like,” Webster manages to groan from the ground.

Harry knows exactly what it looks like, and knows exactly what’s going on. Much like Luz and Toye, he’d rather not know. “Just leave,” he says.

Liebgott perks up like a Rottweiler who’s just smelt raw steak. “What?”

“Leave. Go wherever else you go to do whatever it is you’re not doing.” Harry hefts the chair in his hand. “I’ve got a tan to catch.”

“You’re kidding me.”

Now he’s really annoyed. Harry feels his drill sergeant mode kick in full-force — of all the army has given him, good and bad, he loves the drill sergeant voice the best. “Do I look like I’m joking? Move it, the both of you! If you’re still here in ten seconds you’ll both be scrubbing Hitler’s toilet for the rest of the month.”

They scatter like marbles in a hurricane. It takes Webster more effort to get to his feet. Liebgott seems torn between helping him and letting him flounder. Eventually he decides to be a gentleman, only to smack his own head on the bottom of the pier. They both rush off cursing.

Left to his own devices, Harry regards the pier and sighs. Liebgott and Webster left some interesting impressions in the sand.

No matter. Daylight is fleeting. If he’s not a stud by the time he gets home to Kitty, he hasn’t been using his time well.

Whatever the hell Webster and Liebgott were getting up to, he’s happy to say it doesn’t involve him.

* * *

  **iii. baberoe**

Personally he blames Nixon for what happens next. He blames Nixon for a lot of things, to be honest, but cracking him in the face with a bottle of Vat 69 seems pretty high up on the list of _Things Lewis Nixon Will Pay For When He Dies._

To be fair, it was an accident. Nix was drunk, Harry was drunk. Neither one was watching what they were doing. Nix got too excited, and Harry got too close.

Accident or not, he thinks his nose is _broken,_ dammit, and he's got to blame someone (who's not himself).

He heads to the infirmary with one hand clamped over his face, mouth wide open to enable him to breathe. He can taste blood in his mouth; his entire face is throbbing. He feels like he caught the wrong end of a baseball bat, or a very determined cannon ball. He makes it down the stairs just fine, but he walks into a few walls along the winding path to the infirmary, and he’s starting to think it’s really not worth the hassle. Obviously none of them are good at staying out of trouble. So many guys are still getting hurt, even though the damned war is over. They should have the infirmary in Hitler’s dining room instead of the basement, for convenience alone.

He’s almost certain he’s lost, in fact, when he finally reaches the narrow stairwell leading to the basement. He breathes a sigh of relief as he recognizes the familiar stench of antiseptic. (Once Doc Roe got his hands on actual medical supplies, he had a field day setting up shop. Now he’s got real antiseptic, gauze, stitches, wound plaster, iodine, and even got his hands on a little penicillin. He guards his hoard like a territorial chihuahua.)

Blood is leaking between his fingers, and the cloying iron taste chokes his throat. He stumbles on the top step, and mutters a curse to himself as he’s forced to grip the railing for dear life. Yet another reason to move the infirmary: the stairs will kill Doc’s patients before their injuries get the chance.

He’s halfway down the stairs when the sound of voices drags him to a stop. He recognizes the familiar twang of a Philly accent. His first thought is that Spina must be down there with Roe, checking their supplies, or even looking over a patient — but then Doc Roe’s low voice rings out, and everything becomes clear.

“You don’t gotta shrink away. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

“I know that, Gene. Geez, I know that. Of course you’d never —“ The speaker cuts off to inhale a shaky breath, and Harry frowns. That sure isn’t Spina’s voice. The accent’s right (thick as a Philadelphia cheesesteak, and just as ready to choke you) but Spina doesn’t have that same raspiness to his voice. He’s certainly never heard Spina squeak like _that._

“Don’t flinch away, _cher,”_ Doc Roe murmurs — in a low voice, low enough to make Harry’s own stomach feel filled with butterflies. There’s the sound of nervous laughter, cut off by a low moan, and Hary is disturbed to that _this_ is the moment he recognizes the other voice as Babe Heffron’s. (What can he say? Heffron’s got a distinctive cackle, like a choking goat. All the Philly boys have weird laughs, but Heffron’s even got Guarnere’s squeaky pterodactyl chortle beat.)

He doesn’t know what’s going on.

He doesn’t know what’s happening.

But Harry can _guess._

Honestly, at this point, he doesn’t _care._

He channels his inner Nixon-with-a-hangover-at-eight-in-the-morning, and thunders down the rest of the stairs. His presence is impossible to miss then. A loud yelp rings out. Harry steps into the infirmary just in time to see Doc Roe springing away from a gangly ginger. Said ginger immediately tumbles backwards over the side of the cot and goes sprawling on the ground like the world’s dumbest newborn foal.

Harry blinks at the unorthodox scene. Another few drops of blood leak between his fingers to spatter the infirmary floor. “Uhh, I don’t know what’s happening,” he announces, “but could I get some help?”

Doc Roe aims a very conspicuous kick at Babe’s foot, which is sticking out from the corner of the table. It immediately vanishes. “Whatever you need, Lieutenant,” he declares, cheerful. “Looks like you’ve got a pretty big shiner there.”

Roe isn’t as stern as he would be about an injury like this — as if he wants to keep Harry in a good mood, or he’s distracted by something else.

“Yeah,” Harry sighs. He sits down on the cot, ignoring the Heffron-shaped lump on the floor just behind him. “Unfortunate accident, that’s all. Can you fix me up?”

“No problem,” Roe declares. Immediately, he begins bustling around the infirmary, picking through bandages and splints, wipes and compresses. Harry is nice enough to pay attention to him, and not to Heffron, who’s incapable of staying still and has started to squirm like a tadpole.

As Roe fixes up his face, Harry spots his eyes darting back down to Heffron, over and over. He’d probably like to kick him again, or kiss him until he stops moving. Whatever he’s got planned, Harry’s grateful they restrain themselves until his busted nose is fixed up.

“Go easy on it for a few days,” Roe advises. “Keep ice on it. You’ll have a bruise, but it’s not broken.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Harry remakes, and claps Roe on the back. “Thanks, Doc. Have fun.”

“Will do, Lieutenant,” Roe says without thinking about it. Harry is halfway up the stairs when his well-wishes catch up with Roe. The sputtering that echoes behind him makes Harry grin.

“Wait, Lieutenant, it ain’t like that, we were just —“

“Playing doctor!” Heffron chimes in — and the sharp “ow!” that rings out a second later leaves Harry wondering if Roe didn’t kick him after all.

It’s not his problem, he reiterates to himself. He’s much better off not having to know.

* * *

  **ii. speirton**

It’s hard to settle down after the war, even with Kitty by his side. He finds himself restless. He craves the company of his army buddies more than anything else, so it’s inevitable that Harry winds up traveling.

He chooses a weekend where Kitty is visiting her parents (discussing the date of the inevitable wedding, which they’ve been putting off until Kitty’s father’s health improves). Then he rides up to Boston to pay a couple of old friends a visit.

Ron and Lip welcome him with open arms. Admittedly, Harry had been surprised when he learned Ron convinced Lip to move to Boston; he’d been even more baffled to learn they’d taken up together. Then again, those two were close towards the end of the war. They get along well. If Lip can handle living with Sticky Fingers Speirs, Godspeed to him.

He’s very glad to be back among paratroopers. The first night in Lip and Ron’s apartment passes with a lot of alcohol as they reminisce about the lighter times of the war. Lip has stories about training under Sobel that make the other mens’ skin crawl. Harry spends hours raving about Kitty. Ron gives them just enough information about his new position in the army. It’s a wonderful night, the sort Harry has been craving since he got back on American soil.

By the time he collapses into bed, he’s so drunk he’s practically seeing double. It takes seconds for him to fall into a liquor-coma, and he stays that way for a solid five hours.

The only thing that coaxes him out of bed is his bladder, which begins protesting vehemently midway through his second dream about he and Kitty being a super powered crime fighting duo. On a normal night, he’s good at ignoring the urge until he absolutely has to go, but he’s in an unfamiliar house, isn’t quite positive where the bathroom is, and has drunk enough to drown an elephant.

What’s more, he’s _parched._ This is not a fun combination, especially before sunrise when you’re fighting off the onset of a hangover.

Harry drags himself out from under the covers, fighting past the drowsiness clouding his head. His entire body feels heavy. It’s like he’s moving through molasses; each step takes an inordinate amount of effort. By the time he finally makes it out into the hallway, he feels victorious.

He stumbles in the direction he’s sure the bathroom must be, but is forced to stop when it occurs to him that he’s wrong. The bathroom wasn’t near the kitchen, was it? No. It was on the other end of the house. And he’s standing in the kitchen right now, which must mean —

Oh, wait. He’s not alone.

Ron is on top of the kitchen table. It takes Harry a few seconds to register this, mostly because of the towering, muscular figure that blocks Ron from sight. He’s unfazed by Lip’s lack of shirt, or pants (though he wonders why his host would be wearing nothing but his underwear in the middle of the kitchen). The fact that Ron is on the table _naked_ is more alarming, but Lip looks like he’s got a solid grip on his hips, so he must be taking care of it. Who really knows what Ron Speirs is doing, anyway? They’re awfully close, and they’re rocking back and forth, but Harry doesn’t doubt for a second that Lipton is handling whatever it is.

Harry trips over the doorframe, catches himself, and muffles a massive yawn behind his palm. “Hey, fellas, you got any water?”

For a few seconds, no one replies. Lipton looks mortified; Ron seems just as shaken, and a little like he wants to tear Harry’s intestines out as wear them as a scarf. Harry sways on his feet, lingering in the doorway, until slowly Ron’s arm extends over Lipton’s shoulder. He points in the direction of the cabinet. “Try there.”

“Great,” Harry grunts, and stumbles over. He pulls a glass down from the cabinet, fills it with tap water, and meanders to the refrigerator. There’s still ice in the ice tray. He pops out a few cubes, drops them into his water, and slumps against the refrigerator. For a few seconds, he’s pretty sure he dozes off. Then he wakes with a start, snorts, and turns on his heel.

“Thanks,” he mutters, waving over his shoulder. He wanders through the doorway and back into the darkened hall, leaving the kitchen — and it’s occupants — behind him.

It takes a minute for his brain to catch up.

He stops cold in the middle of the hallway. Water sloshes over the rim of the glass, chilling his knuckles. _Oh,_ thinks Harry, and then he actually says it out loud. “Oh.”

For a second, there’s silence. Then a tentative, “You alright, Harry?” rings out from the kitchen.

Harry shakes his head in response to Lip’s query. No one can see him; he doesn’t care. He’s seen enough already, and no force on earth can get him back in that kitchen.

“Fine,” he replies. “Just still dreaming, ‘s all.”

He stumbles to the end of the hall, and crashes right into the bathroom door. Somehow it’s not enough to knock the memories out of his head.

* * *

  **i. winnix**

He’s seen enough, he’s heard enough, he’s _witnessed_ enough. At this point, he’s not sure why he’s surprised.

He is, though, because — well — it’s just not something a guy expects. There’s a level of respect you like to think your friends would have for you. He can understand Ron and Lip’s secrecy, because they’re just those types of guys. Their personal life is theirs, and as their buddy, Harry can respect that. (Technically, he _did_ walk in on them.)

Dick and Nix, though — he counts them as his best friends. Through the war and afterwards, they’re the ones who have remained the closest. They’re the Andrews Sisters; Groucho, Harpo, and Chico; the Three Musketeers. Harry tells his friends everything about his life.

He would hope that they’d do the same. That’s only natural, right? He would expect that his friends would go out of their way to clue him in to anything going on with -- or _between_ \-- them.

 _If_ there is anything going on. Harry will admit, he’s wondered on a few occasions. From Babe and Doc Roe, who were subtle, to Liebgott and Webster, who were anything but, he’s discovered a knack for stumbling upon his friends in compromising situations. Everyone else seems to be dating. Why not Dick and Nix? They’re close enough that even Harry has to admit, he wouldn’t be surprised if something was going on there.

Still, they never say anything to him, and he never sees anything. All of these unfortunate incidents are making Harry paranoid. By all appearances Dick and Nix are just what they’ve always been -- really good friends.

Then they all go out to dinner.

Ron and Lip were supposed to join them, but they had to cancel last minute. Kitty was set to come too, but an emergency at with her sister had her looking after their kids for the evening. It winds up being just Dick, Nix, and Harry, out to dinner and catching up on old times.

Reminiscing — there’s nothing like it. Especially when you’re allowed to focus on all the good memories, and there’s a lot of liquor on hand.

By the time they leave the restaurant, he and Nix are hanging off of each other. Nix is warbling some old soldier’s tune. Harry is half-focused on chiming in, but mostly trying to keep one foot in front of the other. The indignity of falling on his face before he even makes it to the car is one he’s too familiar with, and he’d like to avoid it tonight if possible.

Once they get there, he collapses in the back seat. Being off his feet is such a relief that he allows himself to sink down, squeeze his eyes shut, and relax. The entire weight of the day seems to crash down on him at once — for a little while, he’s not aware of anything.

Inevitably he does come to. He’s in a liquor coma, not dead — though the amount of noise coming from the front seat of the car would have woken his dearly departed Nana. He pries his sticky eyes open, already feeling the hangover that will hit him full-force in a few hours, and blinks into the darkness.

“Dick,” someone groans from the front seat. “I want to tell you…”

It takes Harry’s hazy brain a few seconds to process this. Then, his eyes shoot wide open.

There’s no subtlety here. There’s not even the illusion of shame. There’s no effort to hide exactly what the hell is going on, mostly because they’re both leaning towards each other across the front seats. This puts them in the perfect position for Harry to get an eyeful of his two best friends, lip-locked, silhouetted against the yellow glow of the dashboard. Streetlights cast shadows upon them, concealing their expressions from view, but Harry can make out tiny details: Nix’s hair is rumpled. His eyes are squeezed shut. Dick has a hand cupping his face. They’re both breathing hard.

They’re kissing.

It seems to last forever. When they finally pull apart, their lips remain pursed, trembling. Dick’s hand still caress Nix’s face, as if he’s afraid to let go. Nix’s eyes are wide, gleaming, and impossibly soft.

“Took you long enough,” Nix mutters, unashamed of the goofy grin on his face. “I’ve been waiting for that all night.”

Dick huffs out a laugh. “I’ve wanted to do that all night.”

It hits Harry like a speeding bus. _Huh,_ he thinks, with the tragic sort of resignation that comes with a man realizing he’s been the third wheel _this entire time._

Not just tonight, either. How many times had he seen Dick and Nix in the middle of a quiet moment and just… dropped in on them? How many times did he insert himself into their little unit, heedless of any possibility that his presence might not be welcome? How many times —

 _Oh god,_ thinks Harry. It’s all he can do not to groan out loud. How many times did he burst in on them during an intimate moment? Without even _realizing?_

How long has this been going on?

The moment he’s witnessing is still impossibly intimate. Dick’s hand still lingers on Nix’s face. As Harry watches, Nix reaches up and cups it with his own. Neither of them seem to acknowledge or care about their “sleeping” friend in the back, and Harry is seized with the sudden knowledge that this is not something he should be watching.

He doesn’t say anything. He simply squeezes his eyes shut and tries to block everything else -- including his own astonishment -- out.

* * *

  **plus one - harry’s revenge**

“We should make a movie.”

“Kitty, I don't think we can make a movie. I don't know _how.”_

“I do! My cousin Veronica, you know her, the one with the blonde hair, skinny, wears too much lipstick --”

“With the big -- umm --”

“Oh, yeah, she’s got a chest like two bowling balls.”

 _“That_ cousin.”

“She’s married to that producer man! You know, I bet if anyone could get us on film, they could! We could be stars, like, like -- Bette Davis, or Clark Gable!”

“I'll be Bogart if you'll be my Bacall.”

“I'll call him up, Harry. I'm sure he can work out something.”

Harry sighs, wrapping his arms around Kitty’s waist and pulling her close. He recognizes when there’s no point in arguing with Kitty. Whenever she's got _that_ gleam in her eyes, she's too far gone for him to hold her back. She's got a vision, and is determined to make it happen.

Her indignation on Harry’s behalf is touching, though Harry doesn’t see it so much as having been betrayed by every single one of his friends. If anything, he just… has his trust violated. And his eyes. His eyes will never recover.

He needs to get his revenge somehow, and if Kitty is willing to help him, who’s he to say no?

“Whatever you say, sweetheart,” he says, and pulls her down to kiss the tip of her nose. Kitty grins at him, pearly teeth flashing, and he thinks he’s never seen a more beautiful sight in his life.

Who cares about his friends and their secret trysts? Harry’s got all he needs right here, and he couldn't be happier.

* * *

 “Gentlemen and not-gentlemen,” Harry announces -- and it occurs to him that he really, really needs more female friends, because the gang he's got now are kind of disappointing. “You are here tonight for a very special presentation.”

“Is it the STD movie again?” Luz calls from the back, raising a round of hoots and cackles from the assembled Easy Company members. “We remember, Lieutenant! No glove, no love! Don't be a fool, cover your tool! You got the clack, stay outta the sack!”

“It's clap, Luz,” Guarnere hollers from up front. Luz returns a shameless grin.

“Yeah, you'd know, wouldn't ya, Gonnorrhea?”

“I don't need two legs to kick your ass back to Normandy.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Harry moans, raising his eyes skyward. He's really starting to doubt if any of this is worth it. God knows, everyone’s already figured out he intends to marry Kitty -- a day never passed during the war when he didn't talk about her -- but the big announcement is really something special. If everyone would just shut up and listen, he could make this a show to remember. "That's not what's going on! I've got something to tell you all, but first --"

He clears his throat into the microphone, then whistles low. Kitty takes her cue; she steps through the doorway at the back of the room, head lowered, and for a second Harry feels like the breath has been knocked out of his lungs. Kitty's golden ringlets are pinned back, falling around her shoulders with effortless ease. Her arms look long and pale, adorned with jewelry that makes her sparkle. Her red dress catches the light, giving her a surreal sort of glow -- but it's the diamond ring on her finger that really gleams. With all eyes on her, Kitty moves quickly up the aisle and steps up on stage alongside her soon-to-be husband. Grinning, Harry loops an arm around her waist and pulls her in close. "I want you all to meet Kitty Grogan, the love of my life — and soon to be, my wife!"

Appropriately, the room bursts into applause. Harry shoots a warning glare at some of the guys who are cheering _too_ loud, but Kitty preens under the attention, so he can't begrudge it. It takes a moment for the racket to die down; he waits for the room to be silent again before moving towards the projector. (God knows getting the thing in here was almost harder than getting themselves on camera in the first place. Introducing Kitty is obviously a priority, but after all their trouble no one is leaving this room until the damn movie has been played in full. Harry will block the doors if he has to. He's sure Kitty will be thrilled to help.)

"I've got a little movie for you guys. Get ready to experience my and Kitty's love story -- on the glorious big screen!"

That's the moment where people start getting nervous. He can hear it; the murmurs die out at once, leaving an awkward, uncomfortable silence in their wake. The projector gives a gagging cough before it begins to buzz. The screen lights up.

"Uhh -- how long is this thing?" calls out someone's worried voice. Harry's eyes flash; he and Kitty exchange wicked smirks.

 _"Three hours,"_ he announces with relish.

The horror that rings out through the room is more satisfying than Harry could have imagined. People gasp, people curse, people _scream_. Harry makes his way off the stage, offering Kitty a hand to help her hop down. "Sorry, fellas, but the doors are locked," he calls over his shoulder. "Hope no one wanted any popcorn!"

“Three hours?” Nix chokes. “Sorry Harry, I'd love to, but I can't stay --”

He makes a move to get to his feet, only to be stopped by hands on his shoulders, pushing him down. For a tiny person, Harry has a very strong grip -- and sharp fingernails. He puts them to good use now.

“Oh no,” Harry says, and lets out a deranged cackle. “No one is going _any_ where.”

Nix sinks back down in his seat like a balloon that’s lost all its air. The look of dread taking over his face matches the atmosphere of the room. They are now hostages, and everyone knows it.

“Harry, please,” Lip says. Harry just shakes his head.

“Do you know how much I've put up with? Do you know the things I've walked in on?” He leans close to Dick’s face, close enough that his nose presses against his cheek. “Do you know what I've _seen?”_

Dick doesn't flinch. His composure is admirable. Harry breathes heavily in his ear for a few seconds before pulling away. A bright grin takes over his face. “I need this! So buckle up, boys, because this is going to be good!”

On screen, he and Kitty are acting out their first meeting. Kitty’s makeup makes her look as gorgeous as any starlet that you’d see in the theatres. As for Harry… well, he hopes his screen presence will make him shine. Around him, his friends look like they're chewing on lemons.

“How long have you been planning this?” Nix hisses. Harry chuckles.

“Ohhhh, since Luz and Toye.”

“Jesus Christ,” Toye mutters, pressing a hand over his eyes. Luz’s face is buried in his hands; he's physically quaking, either with laughter or tears. 

Harry just grins, focusing his attention on the screen. His arm reaches out to loop around Kitty’s shoulders, pulling her closer. Spending a whole three hours watching a movie starring his girlfriend sounds like _paradise_ to him, especially with Kitty sitting right next to him. His on-screen self is giving her flowers now. It's only a few minutes until the song and dance number.

This is going to be a movie night to remember -- whether his friends want to or not.


End file.
